The Piano Man
by MaeJacrezz007
Summary: AU 1970ish. Spencer Reid is a piano player at a bar, and can't help but notice the different types of people wanting to forget about life for a while. ((Summary sucks, story's better)) Rated T just because they're at a bar and minor reference to drug use.


The Piano Man

AN- So this is my first fanfiction, and yeah. It's very AU, set in like 1970ish, where all the team members aren't actually team members. It's not betaed, and I welcome critique with open arms ((unless it's a flame, then I'll hide in a corner and cry)). So yeah, enjoy!

Disclaimer- I don't own the song "Piano Man" or Criminal Minds. If I did this wouldn't be Fanfiction.

~~ (Spencer's POV)~~

It's almost nine on Saturday by the time I walk into the bar, an old worn out place with the name Quantico, a Native American word meaning "place of dancing". Not like that ever happens here. Just about everyone who comes through the doors is just as worn down as the bar itself, and the dance floor has been converted into more space for tables and a baby grand piano -my piano. I know technically it's not mine, but no one else plays it and the manager doesn't pay me enough to buy my own piano. I don't mind too much, and instead of dwelling on those thoughts I drift over to the bar to socialize for the five minutes until nine.

Taking off my hat I place it on the bar top, taking a seat on a stool and surveying the small crowd. All the regulars are here, with the waitress Penelope drifting around to deliver drinks and make small talk. She's a nice girl, and pretty even though she's a little on the heavy side, but it would take a miricale to get her out of here. Both her parents were killed in an accident when she was still just a kid and no family took her in, stranding her basically with no way out financially. She could make it out if she found the right guy and that's what she's doing now it seems, talking to a man she's addressing as "Kevin" and positioning herself so it's very obvious he knows she wants something. Nothing new really, she's just playing politics.

There's a pair of business women at a table, one a little older and with long dark hair, the other noticably younger with blonde hair. They've shed their jackets and the articles of clothing take up the third and final chair at the table, a silent message to everyone in the bar minus Penelope to piss off. Both have a glass in their hands, and it's obvious the women haven't met before by the way conversation drifts towards things like jobs, family, and intrests. Even though I'm not one for talking much to new people, I agree with the women that I would rather be sharing a drink like they are than to drink alone. I can tell by the way the blonde one throws back the last bit of scotch that by the end of the night they'll be well on the way to stoned.

A pair of regulars I know are at the bar, talking like the old friends they are. Aaron is the younger of the two, and looks every bit the stereotypical lawyer that he is. Short dark hair and a serious expression with lines that age him a decade, and if he's in the mood one glare from him can make you feel like you're on trial. He's not always serious, but it takes a good drink or two to coax one of his rare smiles out. Tonight his shoulders are slumped though, hands absentmindedly turning his glass while he recounts to the other man how his wife finally left. Everyone knew it was going to happen, even Aaron himself. After having a kid money became even tighter for the couple, and he ended up throwing himself into his work to support his family. Ironic how it was for his wife and kid that he worked so much, yet it was him never having any time that made his wife pack up and leave with their son.

His shoulder to cry on and the other half of the pair is David, or Dave. An older man that is undeniably Italian with thinning hair, he's still wearing his uniform from the Marines. Aparently he joined right after his first wife and him got married, then ended up staying after their first child was a stillborn. There's a few other guys from the Army in a back booth, all in uniform so I assume a ship just got back. In a week they'll be gone again, off to Vietnam probably, and then back. Most will go back home to families after their tour is done with, but not David. His first wife and best friend Carolyn died two months back, and he had told me then that he'd most likely spend the rest of his life with the Marines since he had nothing to go back to.

I turn to the bar and tap my fingers twice, a smile making it's way onto my face when the bar tender walks over. He's a young black man only slightly older than me that everyone just knows as Morgan, though I seriously doubt that's his first name. He's funny though, nice as well and that smile of his is just contagious. As long as I've known him he's the first to offer a joke or a light, but when nights are slow like this he seems to get just as down as everyone else.

"Hey Spencer, the usual?" He asks me and I nod, though he's already mixing me a Crown Royal and Coke when he asks. Handing me the drink with a napkin, I raise the glass in a silent toast before taking a sip. As always, it's the perfect balance between soda and alcohol. Morgan leans down to rest his elbows on the bar across from me and puts his head in his hands, sighing. "Man, I think this job is killing us."

I take another sip and then put my drink down, looking across the bar to the black man. "I like to pretend that I'm just fine," I say, honestly wanting it to be as easy as that.

Morgan only laughs dryly before replying with, "We both know that's not true. You're smart, could have gone somewhere, still could probably if you tried hard enough."

"You could too," I point out, directing the point of focus away from me and neither denying or agreeing with his statement.

A small, sad smile makes it's way to Morgan's face, and his brown eyes look off into the distance. "I'd like to get out, become an actor or model or something like that. I've just got to get out of this place." His eyes refocus on the bar and he gives me another smile before ducking away, answering to the call of another thirsty coustomer.

Picking up my drink and putting my fadora back on, I make my way over to the piano. The keys are all wiped clean and free of dust, and the mic is already set up. Where the sheets of music would usually stand is a jar marked "Tips Welcomed" and is where I set my drink, sliding onto the bench. Tapping out some random melody to test the tune, I smile when all the notes come out like they're supposed to.

I look up when I notice someone sits next to me, and come face to face with an older man. His face is aged with lines that speak more of sorrow than joy, and he has the type of eyes that seem to look past your skin and straight into your mind. 'Wonder what he sees in me,' I think absently, my hands still tickling a soft and smooth noise from the ivory keys.

"What can you play?" He asks, taking a drink from a glass that from the colour and smell I can tell is a mix of tonic and gin.

"Anything. What are you in the mood for?" I smile just a little, mimicking something close to cheerfulness.

He's quiet for a minute, staring off into the distance and swirling the ice around in his drink. I'm about to ask the question again but the man sighs and says, "A memory. It's sad, and sweet, and I knew all the words when I was younger."

I can't help but smile sadly, all too familiar with what the older man needs. Ending the tune I'm playing I poise my hands, looking into the man's eyes as he puts his drink next to mine. He starts humming, swaying back and forth to the nonexistent song. My fingers moved on their own, lightly testing the keys and notes to pick ones that sounded right, and the man smiled.

"My wife used to sing this to our son, Steven, when he was younger. She made it up, and it didn't really have words to it," he comments and takes up his drink again.

After making sure the melody is just right and what the man remembers, I play the tune louder for the bar to hear and add on, the music flowing through the air on an invisible wind that caresses each person. And it's perfect. It's sad and sweet, without any meaning besides to help them forget about life for a while. The old man next to me smiles and looks at me encouragingly, and I smile back before singing the first thing I think sounds right.

"La la la di dee da,

La da di dee da da dum.

La la la di dee da,

La da di dee da da dum."

It's nonsensical, but again perfect. The piano sounds like a carnival, and all eyes in the place are either on me or closed in a blissful nostalgia. The old man doesn't move from his place on the bench next to me, and I don't mind. As soon as I start singing the lyrics again all voices in the bar chime in, most off tune but none caring. I smile and play through the song one last time, knowing that it sadly can't go on forever.

Ending the song, there's a round of applause. The manager, Mrs. Erin Strauss, has come out of her back room office and smiles at me. She knows that it's me they're coming to see, and isn't afraid to admit it.

My tip jar is being filled with a few ones and change, and I thank everyone who puts anything in. The old man sticks in a ten dollar bill and stands from the bench. "What are you even doing here kid?" He asks, though it's mostly to himself by the way he walks away to retreat to the bar.

I smile again and roll up my sleeves to play another song, folding the cuffs neatly so they're covering my elbows and many small scars. They're old and faded, but I'm still able to see where every track mark is and so would anyone else if they saw. But I hide them, and smile and keep playing. After all, I'm the piano man, and no one has to know I have my own problems. I just help people forget about their own.

~~Fin~~


End file.
